“It cannot be but that he will be found,” called out Kmita.
Before the starosta answered the door opened, and into the room walked a man no longer young, in armor and with a musket in his hand.
“Pan Shchebjytski?” said the starosta.
“Yes,” answered the newly arrived. “I heard that ruffians had besieged you, and I hastened with my servants to the rescue.”
“Without the will of God a hair will not fall from the head of a man,” answered the starosta. “This cavalier has already freed me from oppression. But whence do you come?”
“From Sohachev.”
“Have you heard anything new?”
“Every news is worse. New misfortune—”
“What has happened?”
“The provinces of Krakow, Sandomir, Rus, Lubelsk, Belzk, Volynia, and Kiev have surrendered to Karl Gustav. The act is already signed by envoys and by Karl.”
The starosta shook his head, and turned to Kmita—
“See,” said he, “do you still think that the man will be found who will not spare his soul for the love of truth?”
Kmita began to tear the hair from his forelock; “Despair! despair!” repeated he, in distraction.
And Pan Shchebjytski continued: “They say also that the remnants of the army, which are with Pototski, the hetman, have already refused obedience and wish to go to the Swedes. The hetman probably is not sure of safety or life among them, and must do what they want.”
“They sow rebellion and reap suffering and pain,” said the starosta. “Whoso wishes to do penance for his sins, now is his time!”
Kmita could not hear further either prophecies or news; he wanted to sit with all speed on his horse and cool his head in the wind. He sprang up therefore, and began to take farewell of the starosta.
“But whither so hastily?” asked the latter.
“To Chenstohova, for I too am a sinner!”
“Though glad to entertain, I will not delay you, since your work is more urgent, for the day of judgment is at hand.”
Kmita went out; and after him went the young lady, wishing instead of her father to do honor to the guest, for the old man was weak on his feet.
“Be in good health, young lady,” said Kmita; “you do not know how thankful I am to you.”
“If you are thankful to me,” answered the young lady, “do me one service. You are going to Chenstohova; here is a ruddy ducat—take it, I beg, and give it for a Mass in the chapel.”
“For whose intention?” asked Kmita.
The prophetess dropped her eyes, trouble spread over her face; at the same time a slight flush came to her cheeks, and she said with a low voice, like the rustle of leaves—
“For the intention of Andrei, that God may turn him from sinful ways.”
Kmita pushed back two steps, stared, and from astonishment could not speak for a time.
“By the wounds of Christ!” cried he, at last, “what manner of house is this? Where am I? The prophecy itself, the soothsaying, and the indications—Your name is Olenka, and you give me for a Mass for the intentions of a sinful Andrei. This cannot be chance; it is the finger of God—it is, it is. I shall go wild!—As God lives, I shall!”
“What is the matter?”
He caught her hands violently and began to shake them. “Prophesy further, speak to the end! If that Andrei will return and efface his faults, will Olenka keep faith with him? Speak, answer, for I shall not go away without that!”
“What is your trouble?”
“Will Olenka keep faith with him?” repeated Kmita.
Tears came suddenly into the eyes of the maiden: “To the last breath, to the hour of death!” said she, with sobbing.
She had not finished speaking when Kmita fell his whole length at her feet. She wanted to flee; he would not let her, and kissing her feet, he said—
“I too am a sinful Andrei, who wants to return. I too have my loved one, Olenka. May yours return, and may mine keep faith. May your words be prophetic. You have poured balsam and hope into my suffering soul—God reward you, God reward you!”
Then he sprang up, sat on his horse, and rode away.
XXXVIII
The words of the young daughter of the starosta of Sohachev filled Kmita with great consolation, and for three days they did not leave his head. In the daytime on horseback, in the night on the bed, he was thinking of what had happened to him, and he came always to the conclusion that this could not be simple chance, but an indication from God, and a presage that if he would hold out, if he would not leave the good road, that same road which Olenka had shown him, she would keep faith and give him her former affection.
“If the starosta’s daughter,” thought Kmita, “keeps faith with her Andrei, who has not begun to grow better, there is still hope for me, with my honest intention of serving virtue, the country, and the king.”
But, on the other hand, suffering was not absent from Pan Andrei. He had an honest intention, but had it not come too late? Was there yet any road, were there yet any means? The Commonwealth seemed to sink deeper each day, and it was difficult to close one’s eyes to the terrible truth that for it there was no salvation. Kmita wished nothing more intently than to begin some kind of work, but he saw no willing people. Every moment new figures, every moment new faces, passed before him in the time of his journey; but the sight of them, their talk and discussions, merely took from him the remnant of his hopes.
Some had gone body and soul to the Swedish camp, seeking in it their own profit; these people drank and caroused as at a wake, drowning, in cups and in riot, shame and the honor of nobles; others told, with blindness beyond understanding, of that power which the Commonwealth would form in union with Sweden, under the sceptre of the first warrior on earth; and these were the most dangerous,
